


Project: Orpheus

by ginger_green



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Custom Shepard (Mass Effect), F/F, Injury Recovery, Mild Gore, Paragon Shepard (Mass Effect), Post-Canon, Shepard is alive, Synthesis Ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:20:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22203223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginger_green/pseuds/ginger_green
Summary: A story of Shepard coming back from the dead. Again.
Relationships: Female Shepard/Liara T'Soni, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 79





	1. Lt. Reginald Oyata, Citadel

Fate is a funny word. Means 'someone else is running the show'.

Reggie grew up in a slaughterhouse. Born in a small village east of Beijing. His mother was an engineer - keeping machines running, keeping the knives churning. He used to sneak through a hole in the fence, then break the lock on the back entrance of the killing floor.

The machines did all the work. Stainless steel shimmered under diode light. Mechanical workers drifted between the conveyors like ghosts, the hum of their eezo thrusters a gentle background to industrial noise. All was sterile like in a hospital. Little Reggie grew to hate mechs. Red stains were forever buried under his skin, just as they were buried under plastic disinfected wraps in the processing section.

Citadel felt like home.

From the vantage point on the bridge he could see far and wide across the Presidium. Quiet. Dark. Only the frost that covered the trees indicated a recent disturbance. Puddles of brightly colored blood and frozen fuel crackled under Oyata's mech boots, and the shards bounced off the ground like butterflies. He was heading to the Citadel Tower, climbing over fallen debris and wrecked ships. The silence was only broken by his own breath, the whistling of air, and the soft buzzing of someone's argument on the comlink. Around and above was the Crucible, a massive structure whose silhouette overshadowed the whole Presidium. A monument of determination, of lust for life.

The elevator was powered down. Oyata grunted, pushing the doors apart. His augmented suit made it easier. The door barely slid open to let him through, and the moment he let go it shut tight again. He was left in darkness, his helmet a sole source of light.

He was about to head up the elevator shaft when his omnitool lit up with an incoming message. Alliance code. Looks like someone finally responded to his backup requests.

He switched on the speaker in his suit and turned the jetpack down. The resulting impulse drew him slowly up the shaft so he could talk and navigate past the obstacles at the same time.

"Citadel rescue!" The voice on the comlink was crisp. "This is Captain Henley of SSV Dunkirk. Your unit has been temporarily transferred into my command. How goes the sweep?"

A transfer? Then the ship is here for an inspection, not backup. Oyata would spit if his suit allowed it. Deprived of the pleasure, he gritted his teeth.

"Captain, huh? This is Lieutenant Oyata, head of the Citadel rescue team. No offense sir but feel free to get comfortable up there. Sweeping a giant space station usually takes a while."

"Cut the attitude, Lieutenant. What's your status?"

Of all leadership they just had to send a guy with a stick up his ass.

"Aye-aye, sir. Sorry." Oyata cleared his throat and proceeded with the briefing. "It's weird but most buildings are intact. Some got blasted during the fighting and some took hits when ships started going down, but that's about it. Neither the Crucible nor the station have been affected by the blast of energy we observed, but that's not to say we're on vacation here. Life support reactors are... dispatched. The two we managed to get into are fried, radiation level off the charts... The hatch leading to the others is so massive I'd bring nothing short of a cruiser cannon. All systems are offline - light, gravity, ventilation... the place is dead."

"Wait--gravity's out? Is the core damaged?"

"Eezo core itself is fine, otherwise we'd crash into Earth. But the mass controls are done for, stuck on minimum pull. Like walking on the Moon. Gates and hatches are all jammed, had to break our way in at the docks. If you're landing, go for D-025, we got that one open for you."

"Roger that. What about the people?"

Oyata hustled over his omnitool, pulling up an interactive holomap of the Citadel.

" _There are no people_ , sir. At least as far as we know. We broke the place into sectors for our teams to handle, but it's still a ton of work. Each team consists of an infiltrator specialist, a medic, and several guards. The head of each team feeds me updates via this live model of the station. Uploading it to your servers now."

Another notification popped up while the file was uploading. Oyata flipped through the maintenance feed to find the short list of report summaries.

He did not see words. He only saw bloodstains. Purple, blue, green blood. Red blood. The pull of his jetpack reverberated through his bones. He could hear its hissing, just like the hum of an eezo thruster. The numbers meant nothing. This wasn't a rescue mission. He was sent to clean up a graveyard.

"Landing pads clear. No survivors. C-Sec headquarters clear. No survivors. Presidium sectors A12, A15, A24 clear. No survivors. Zakera sectors from A1 to B15 clear. No survivors. Accessible maintenance clear. No survivors. Life support sectors A to D clear... no survivors."

Silence was hanging in his helmet. A few meters more, and a stripe of light sliced his dark surroundings in half. He latched onto the torn cables on the wall. He did not make haste to force open the jammed doors, letting his eyes rest in the dark. Through the gap between the doors he could see the Council chamber. Its ceiling has collapsed, leaving the room an open theater under the stars. The universe was looking down at the station, and great sorrow filled its gaze.

"...I see." Henley let out a heavy sigh. Oyata almost felt sorry. "Alright. I'm dropping off some supplies for you at the docks, but we have to be on our way. Earth needs every soldier available. However the turians radioed in, they're sending their own team here. Their fleet has been hit hard, but they feel the efforts here are too important to leave everything up to the Alliance. The asari and salarians should be here soon as well. Mostly they'll be counting their dead."

Oyata let out a sigh of relief. Turian scouting party sounded like the right idea.

"Roger that, Captain."

"Everything's chaos right now, Lieutenant. I know this job isn't a pretty one, but we all must do our part rebuilding the galaxy. This is yours. I hope you'll prove up to it."

"Yes, sir."

"Henley out."

Oyata was left alone among the floating debris. His jetpack ran out of fuel; he was falling down. The cables held him.

He sighed and got back to work. After some struggle the elevator door slid into its slot, and he stepped into the Council chamber. What was left of it.

An Alliance frigate got blown up and crashed into the building right before the Crucible was activated. Its wreckage was now sticking out of the ruins, clawed at by icy wind. Lowered gravity caused the upper layers of the Citadel's atmosphere to thin out and slip away into space; even if anyone had survived the frigate's crash, they'd have died of asphyxiation or exposure by now.

Hell of a view though.

Oyata strolled through the rubble with no particular aim, tracking other teams on his omnitool. The closest one just finished sweeping the Financial District. Empty. He should file a request for a forensics team instead of the medical one. Sifting through all this meat will take a while.

Fate is a funny word. Implies the existence of a light spot which certain individuals are pushed in, whether they like it or not. Oyata was about to sit down for a quick rest when his omnitool beeped, indicating an incoming transmission. A distress call? It's close... less than a block away... no, can't be.

He jumped on his feet and dug into the rubble as the signal began beeping louder. There was something underneath the junk; he brushed last crumbles of concrete off to reveal a large container of bizarre make, which proved to be the source of the signal. Something about its angles felt wrong, like it was pieced together without any coherent plan. Oyata stared at the container, trying to figure out how to open it. Just when he thought of breaking it open with his bare hands, the pod practically fell apart on its own; its walls collapsed like cardboard sheets. Oyata stretched his neck to peek inside.

He knew what a dissected body looks like. But this - this was different. An avantgarde sculpture of bone and meat. It was not even burnt - cooked alive, dehydrated and withered and then torn apart. Bruised organs and cracked joints bulged under the burnt to the crisp skin; the face was gone completely, twisted and gaping with holes instead of eyes, nose and mouth; everything was black with soot and brown with dry blood - and in the midst of it was the heart, a sack of flesh in which a soul kept beating, frantic, scorched, but still living.

Something clicked against Oyata's boot. He picked it up: a pair of Alliance dog tags.

_No fucking way._

"Echo team! Echo, dammit, do you copy? I need a medic here ASAP!!"

"Reggie, that you? What's going on up there?"

"A survivor--she... she's in bad shape. She needs help, now!!"

"Alright, alright, just don't panic. We're on our way. ETA six minutes."

"She won't live that long. Hurry!"

The only sound was the pulse beating on his eardrums. He was sweating.

"Alright. They're coming. It's alright. It's alright..."

The pulsing heart twitched and stopped. Oyata fell on his knees, clasping at the broken body; he reached into the ribcage and squeezed the tired organ gently, once and then again, and again - and the slippery heart kept beating against its will in the palm of his hand.

"Come on, big girl, don't you die on me. Don't you dare put me on the spot like that. Shit, shit, I didn't sign up for this. Dammit. Jesus Christ. Henley will have my head!"


	2. Dr. Liara T'Soni, SSV Normandy

The ship crashed.

The crew scurried around the cargo deck, trying to figure out how to seal the breach in it. They'd been at it for a few days now. Two of the Normandy's thrusters were broken and one caught a boulder in the turbine. EDI briefly went offline and was now busy coming to terms with a few changes in her programming. Joker had emptied out his lexicon of intergalactic slurs; he almost had a heart attack when his co-pilot collapsed without warning... and then got back up with a weird green glow about her.

Liara stumbled out of the medbay and leaned against the wall, catching her breath. She took a heavy beating back on Earth. She got out of bed the moment her feet could carry her again. She was shaking. Everything seemed blurry. She stared blankly into the floor, rocking back and forth. Someone patted her shoulder. Garrus. She swallowed the wish to hug him and burst into tears, and instead asked if there is anything she can help with.

"You look pale. Go lie down." The turian nudged her towards the room. "We'll handle the repairs. Just... call me if you need anything."

She nodded and forced out what was supposed to be a smile but turned out a grimace. But he understood.

She locked the cabin door. Her screens, clothes and equipment lay scattered on the floor; she walked on them and could not care less. Glass and plastic cracked beneath her feet with a soft crunch. She fell onto the bed and buried her face in the pillow. Everything hurt.

"Doctor T'Soni," called a gentle synthetic voice, "our agent from Horsehead Nebula reports strange sightings--"

"Leave me alone, Glyph." She couldn't manage more than a whisper. "Please."

The room fell silent. In that silence the pulse of her useless heart was loud, inappropriate.

Wounds of flesh meant nothing. She had a hole in her chest, a well in which a sack of blood kept beating against its will. Without purpose.

Asari are viewed as one of the wisest races in the galaxy. They've had millennia to figure out everything there is: life, death, politics, religion, warfare, sexuality. You'd think if there was ever a key to happiness, they would have found it already. But it's all bullshit. The lies of matriarchs. The teachings of a great Eternity, of every creature taking part in relentless cycle. And after death their bodies continue to provide for future generations--bullshit!

For all their wisdom they never found life without suffering. For asari hearts are deep as oceans. Their feelings are rich and powerful. Their love is a waterfall, their hate is a hurricane. Their grief is as blue as the seas of Khaje.

Slowly, with each shaking breath, the knot in Liara's chest began unwinding, and tears poured down her cheeks in bitter streams. She had not cried this hard since mother died. Mother... She left her. And now Shepard left her too. Alone. She was always alone. People are difficult, unpredictable and hurtful; she never had many friends. But this was different. She was cold, scared; she sank into the very heart of solitude. Not simply alone. _Lonely._

If only she had never left Thessia. If only she'd never gone to Therum; never got stuck in that ruin; never met _her._ Shepard. Raven curles, big muscles, tan and heat of a thousand suns, a thousand worlds. Calm, reassuring voice. And a promise more powerful than any weapon: No one is without worth. No one gets left behind.

How could they leave her?! What if she is still there, still alive? What if she is alone, wounded, scared and cold? She would never leave them like that. She would break every rule and beat all the odds, and she would come for them, for her friends and allies. She would come for Liara, would carry her far away, safe and wanted and loved. She would never... never.

_Please. I'm so cold here. Wherever you are, I beg you, don't leave me. Don't leave me. I'm cold, Shepard, I'm scared. Everything hurts. Shepard. Please._

No. This has to stop. Liara will not wail and fall apart like a newborn. This is not what Shepard would want. She would not wallow, would not disrespect the fallen by giving up. She would get up. She would keep going.

The pain was excruciating. Who would've guessed - having your left thigh ripped off by an explosion is pretty damn unpleasant. Liara limped over to the shattered console and began assessing the damage done to her cabin. Her private terminal was still online, though the poor console got smashed into an omnigel-soaked mess. Good thing she brought spare parts; now if she can link the drive to her omnitool...

"Are you alright, Liara?"

"EDI?" She sobbed and quickly wiped the tears off her cheeks. "I'm... I'm fine. How is the ship doing?"

"We are fine for the moment. Repairs are underway, though it will take some time before the thrusters are once again operational."

EDI's voice had a new, colorful undertone to it, like a melody you cannot get out of your head.

"You sound... different."

"I am still running a diagnostic on the changes introduced into my system. It seems my programming has been upgraded in ways I would never have guessed to do myself. I think... I am alive."

"You are _what?"_

"I would assume it was some kind of virus were it limited to a particular location. However, the change appears to be present everywhere."

"And how does it... how do you feel?"

"What previously was merely an input of my sensors is now affecting my operational protocols directly. I used to be able to choose which behavior to display depending on incoming data. This decision is now pre-registered based on the data itself. I am not sure how I feel, but the fact that I feel _something_ is alarming."

"Wait--does that include the sensors built into the ship? That breach in the cargo hold..."

"It does not cause me significant distress, though I am constantly reminded of it. My 'feelings' do not correlate with the way organics would respond to the same situation. I am still a synthetic life form. I do not feel exhaustion or hunger, and if I get wounded, my mobile platform will not produce tears. So to answer your question - I am not hurt. It is more like itching in your terms."

"Let me know if it gets worse."

"I will. Liara, about Shepard..."

"EDI, please. Let's just focus on fixing the Normandy."

"Very well."

Liara's terminal was flooded with alarmed messages, including 'damned robots just stand there, doing nothing', 'everything is green' and a few pages of binary code which translated into gibberish. She took time to consider her response; she wasn't quite sure what had happened. Did the Crucible really work? Have the Reapers' attack ceased? How are their allied fleets doing? She needed more information. She ordered a few agents to inspect the battlefront. Someone should inform Hackett the Normandy is safe... where the hell have they landed anyway? Better check with EDI on that.

She was neck deep in work when a cautious voice on the comlink interrupted her. Someone was trying to reach the Normandy through the QEC, all the way from Earth... addressing Liara instead of the human crew.

"Me?.." This did not bode well. "Traynor, can you patch it through Glyph?"

"Of course, ma-am."

A flickering holo of a woman appeared in the center of her room, floating just above the floor like an uninvited ghost. She had a harsh, stone-carved face, with dark shadows under her eyes. She was holding a datapad.

"Are you Liara T'Soni?"

"I am. And who are you?"

"I'm calling you from Lipstadt Hospital in London. You were listed as an emergency contact for Commander Laile Shepard of SSV Normandy, Alliance fleet--"

The name cut right through her shielded heart and left a bitter taste in her mouth. Nobody called her Laile. Just Shepard. Liara swallowed hard and bit her lip to avoid a meltdown in front of a stranger.

"Did you find her body?" she asked instead, a bit too brash in her grief. The woman looked up from the datapad as if she just now became aware of Liara's existence.

"There is no body, miss T'Soni. Commander Shepard is alive."

alive

_alive_

**_a l i v e_ **

Blood drummed in her head like a giant hammer. She could not hear anything but the pulse. She could not feel the floor under her feet. Everything was floating. Pulsing. Her lips parted; no sound came out. Her eyes were dry and glassy.

She grabbed the console to keep balance. It took titanic effort to force the words out of her throat.

"Where... where did you say your hospital was?"

"London. The street is in ruins, so I'm sending you the navpoint - easier this way. Admiral Hackett is already here, his men will meet you at the landing zone."

Liara's omnitool lit up with an incoming transmission. The holo flickered again and disappeared.

She made a step, stumbled, slipped on the glass and fell. Her thigh was pulsing with dull, hot pain; she did not care. The pain did not matter. She called up a link with the Normandy's bridge; her hands were shaking.

"Joker! Joker, it's Liara!! Shepard--she--we need to go back to Earth! Now!!"

The ocean in her chest kept beating, strong, deep and steady.


	3. Dr. Vysaria Telabi, Lipstadt Hospital

"How are we looking?"

"Blood pressure is low but steady. Oxygenation at ninety percent."

"Drop the sedatives. Introduce pure oxygen."

_Breathe now, human. Breathe._

"Oxygenation at ninety seven percent. Brain activity minimal. Pressure going up."

_Good._

The human is small. It has no chitinous plates, no secondary organs. Compared to most species, it is pathetic. But Vysaria loves humans all the same.

She has been a doctor for thirty three years. Got herself a cozy little clinic on Illium right after the First Contact War. No one ever wondered how a turian acquires expertise in human physiology. Now look who's pulling their Commander from the fire. If they knew - would they still ask for her help?

Right now she has more to worry about than her past. In fact, she is having a mental breakdown. Very quietly.

As a medic, she was among the first to witness the change. Her patients began to heal as if by miracle. She's lost sleep taking tissue samples; the organs were _mending themselves_. Her crew, gravely wounded, were getting up with rifles in their hands. The Turian Fleet celebrated their return and praised Vysaria's skills. Only she had nothing to do with it.

She could feel her own body changing. Shifting. It was like taking red sand. Her mind became sharper. There was hunger to it. She wanted to learn something new, to strive, to perfect - and no matter how long she meditated, the buzz in her skull just wouldn't stop. She had seen this hunger before. In an interview with an illegal AI. Organic life is as much hardware as it is software; synthetic life is a construct. Organics change through experience; synthetics change through learning.

The change was trippy - and disconcerting.

That was before she met Shepard.

When the humans brought her in, she was so helpless. But her chest kept rising and the heart kept beating, though the tissue around it melted and peeled off like soft skin on a rotten apple. Shepard was strong. But strength won't save you from long-term exposure and third degree burns. Strength won't keep your brain going when a third of it is turned into melty cheese.

There was more to it. Shepard should not be alive.

Her body was now sealed in a special capsule - sterile environment, filtered air, controlled temperature. With seventy five percent of her skin functionally gone, a single breath outside could kill her within an hour. And even in this preservation chamber her body kept dying, frozen in a long agony. There was so much wrong. Shattered bones. Ripped muscles. Failing nervous system. Intracranial hematomas, punctured lungs. And then the cybernetic implants that could not be ejected or replaced. Some of them might not even function anymore - who can say?

Vysaria stood there and stared at Shepard through the glass. She could see Commander's chest rise ever so slightly with each breath.

How is she still breathing? Why won't she die?

The comlink made a fuzzy white noise and a melodic voice poured through the speaker on the wall.

"Doctor Telabi? We have a problem."

Vysaria let out a deep sigh. Her existential crisis will have to wait.

"Hit me."

"That asari, Shepard's bondmate - she's here. The whole crew is here. There is a quarian admiral, an advisor to the Primarch, a human Spectre... and a giant bug with four eyes. Things are getting a bit... dicey."

"I don't care if they take you hostage; Shepard's health is my primary concern. The asari can go through, the rest will have to wait downstairs."

The speaker bleeped and left the room in silence. Vysaria eyed her assistants.

"Clear out."

The humans didn't need to be asked twice. They retreated into the disinfection area, peeking through the glass doors. Waiting to see the living legend - Matriarch Benezia's daughter.

She burst in glowing with a blue biotic aura. The field pulsed around her as she ran through the corridor, knocking down furniture and people alike. As she neared the disinfection chamber, Vysaria's aids scattered out of her path. The asari stopped in her tracks, breathing heavily, leaving a silver trace of patina on the glass. That door was all that separated her from Vysaria - and Shepard.

She slammed her fist against the lock. Sparks spilled from the console; the lock lit up with red warning signs. Vysaria stayed still. Her pulse was slow and even.

She made a step and put her palm against the glass, only inches away from the asari on the other side. She looked Liara in the eye, cold yellow drilling into the bright blue.

"If you open that door now," she said, " _you will kill Shepard._ "

For a moment the air was thick with tension as Liara stared at her without blinking. Then, as if her body began to thaw, she stepped back and pulled her hands away from the door. Vysaria pushed a few buttons to initiate a decontamination procedure. Two long minutes later the door could finally be opened. Liara was pale. All menace, all rage was gone. The only thing left was a little girl, worried sick, exhausted.

"I am Doctor Telabi." Vysaria tried to sound reassuring. "I am here to help."

"How bad is it?"

"See for yourself."

She let Liara approach the capsule. She waited for tears - but none followed. Liara pressed her forehead against the glass, softly breathing in and out like the calming sea. So close. So distant.

Her tender touch could shatter stone.

"As the dead flesh begins to soften and rot, the living tissue underneath gets infected at increasing rate. We're doing what we can with the skin transplantation, but her body has trouble accepting it." Vysaria pulled a switch on a console nearby; mechanical manipulators tugged at Shepard's skin gently, clearing the wounds. "What really worries me is the cybernetics. They are unique. Magnificent. They blend into her body so well it's hard to say where the living tissue ends and the synthetic one begins. Unfortunately, that means it has no analogue. It is irreplaceable."

Liara's eyes narrowed; her gaze became sharp and suspicious.

"Telabi, isn't it?.. There is something you're not telling me."

She never let her guard down. Not completely. Vysaria nodded and pulled up a few of Shepard's scans on her omnitool. 

"See this? This is a high-power processor built right into Shepard's spinal cord. It functions as a substitute for the peripheral nervous system. Regulates breathing, heartbeat, digestion, things like that."

"Is something wrong with it?"

"That's the strange part. It remained intact, though everything around it was destroyed. But... there is something in there. It's scrambling our readings on the neural damage. It's more than white noise. It is... deliberate."

"A virus?"

"I don't know."

She looked past the pictures at the one in the capsule. Shepard looked so peaceful. So open. Does she even know what a technological marvel she is? Did she realize how much of a masterwork her body is, how many fascinating discoveries could be made upon studying it? Has she wondered, perhaps, if at some point her mind became not entirely her own - a product of cybernetics, of synthesis?..

"Spend enough time with it," Vysaria spoke up softly, "and you'll... feel it. It has a pulse, a will of its own. I think it wants Shepard safe, but also fears being discovered. But we won't know how to reach it without the schematics of the processor. Do you know anything about how it was built?"

"No. But I can get you the one who built it."


	4. Miranda Lawson, Listening outpost Rosalind

Miranda never liked the dark.

Perhaps it is a matter of control - you cannot rule over what you cannot see. Or perhaps father's practice of locking her in a dark room as punishment had something to do with it. Either way she would get goosebumps every time the lights were switched off, even if she kept telling herself to stop being a baby.

Her flashlight searched through the hall of an abandoned school, clinging to the stripped walls and the specs of dust in the air. Soft rustle came from above, like a pair of tiny feet tapping on the floor. Miranda pulled on a breather and gripped her pistol a bit tighter. This was a cold, quiet place. A bad place.

"Rosalind, this is operative Lawson. Coast is clear; proceeding with pest control."

"We hear you, miss Lawson. Reinforcements moving in. Operation Pest Control is a go. Good luck."

Outpost Rosalind sat by the broken radio tower which only recently came back online. A message came from London: the Reapers have stopped attacking. Left behind was a horde of monsters - lost and abandoned, forgotten by their masters. They no longer pressed on Alliance borders; dispatching them became easy, sometimes whole packs at a time. Miranda almost felt sorry for them. No, not sorry - guilty. Each time she pulled a trigger, it felt like... murder. _They are already dead,_ she would tell herself. _Nothing we can do for them now._

And to think that three years ago she put a bullet through the head of an injured, unarmed man, and didn't even pause. This is all Shepard's influence. Chat with her long enough and every store on the Citadel will be your favorite.

The empty hall led Miranda to the cafeteria. The door was barricaded with little tables and chairs. She knocked and called; nobody answered. She pulled the barricade apart with biotics, taking care not to throw furniture around. Once the door was clear, she stepped inside, frantic spot of flashlight dancing up and down the tiles.

Two shadows lay among the broken tables. Two little skeletons, holding hands.

The second floor was for classrooms. Miranda pushed one door after another with her foot, ready to shoot on sight. At times she could feel somebody's eyes watching her from the dark. The tapping of little feet came from the corner; she jumped, the impact of shots echoing through her hand like a fast pulse. Two green bodies hit the floor on the other end of the corridor. Their heads were split, intricate wiring spilling out of nonfunctional brains. Miranda took a deep breath. Nervous heat pushed against her skin. Almost done. Just a few more rooms, then she can get out.

A few meters down the corridor. She pushed the door; the screech it made sent shivers down her shoulders.

In a pile of rubble, a creature sat and stared.

It was small and defenseless. Its sockets spilled green light over the crumbled stone. It raised its head but did not attack. Miranda made a step forth, pistol trained between the creature's eyes.

Just as she was about to pull the trigger, it _spoke_. The sound was much like the screeching of the door.

"M-mma..." Notes gurgled and wheezed in its metal throat. "M-ma-mma."

It was three years ago. He would've killed her. Of course she could've been wrong. But she's never wrong. Is she?

She could not, would not shoot. Her hand fell limp, numb. Then she herself collapsed, unable to move as the creature drew near and clutched her knee. Its fingers were cold.

"I'm sorry." Her voice could not rise above the whisper. "I'm so sorry."

"Rr-ro... rro-bots..."

"They're gone. We stopped them."

"Ssss... sssilence. Ssss-ssilence?.."

A strange mixture of guilt and disgust filled Miranda's chest, like bitter seawater. The husk crawled closer until its head rested on her lap, thin arms wrapped tightly around her waist. She could see the damaged tubes and wires sticking out of its back, little diode lamps switching off one by one. Husks could not function without the Reapers' control.

It was dying. And in doing so it defied the very principle of its own creation.

"Yes. It will be silent now. I promise."

She brought her weapon down in one strike. It went deep into the brittle skull. The creature twitched once. Then it was gone.

Miranda was still holding the little body when a team of Alliance Marines found her. They circled her, those large armored shapes, asking if she was hurt. She stood up and veiled her feelings behind a mask, saying that no, she is not hurt. Area clear. No survivors.

Someone was ordered to escort her back to the outpost. She walked through the wrecked street, and the soldier followed her with a rifle ready. _Lower that thing,_ she told him. _I'd rather not get shot in the back._

More than anything she wanted a nap. The CO was not ready for her report yet; she made it to her stationary unit and crawled onto the flimsy bunk bed. The generators flipped in and out most of the time; it was cold here. Miranda brought up her knees and draped a blanket over the shoulder. Someone was shouting. A loud thud followed; the lights flickered as the power kicked back in. The air became warmer. It brought the blissful weight on Miranda's chest.

It's been so long since she just lay down.

"Ma-am? There is an incoming message for you from SSV Normandy. Marked urgent."

Miranda blinked and had to suppress a yawn; precious sleepiness slipped away, replaced by the face of a young officer with a datapad. The woman reached to salute but changed her mind mid-way, almost bringing a smile to Miranda's face. Alliance brass were still confused regarding her position in their ranks. Or lack thereof.

"Thank you, officer. I'll just be a moment."

Reluctantly, she parted with the blanket and followed the woman into the comcenter - a small building adjacent to the radio tower where the brass stored their communication tech. Security was not their prior concern, but they did build a few soundproof booths for important calls once the tower was again functional. The young officer pointed Miranda toward one of the booths in the far corner. The light above its door was colored red.

The silence inside pressed on Miranda's eardrums like a clog of cotton. She winced, taking a seat in an uncomfortable chair and tweaking the sound setting on the comlink. There was some static, clicking, unpleasant crunching of broken plastic, and then her eyes met the ones on the screen - bright, blue, and round.

"Miranda." Liara's voice was muffled, distant and bleak. "It's good to see you alive."

"Liara? What's wrong? Where's Shepard?.."

In the back of her head she already knew the answer. Only it didn't seem possible. She of all people should have known it could happen - but she could not bring herself to believe it.

Once you knew Shepard, you could not trust in anything else, even your own eyes. She was just too real. Too much like the sunlight, the heat against your skin, the shimmer on the water. Like a good memory that makes you think everything will be okay.

"She's--I'll explain in person. I don't know how, but she did it. The Crucible, it worked."

"I know. She was always the type to get the job done. Still, I can scarcely believe it... All this effort we've put in, all the fighting... She made it possible."

"She wouldn't have this chance without you." Liara's gaze dashed around; she leaned in closer. "Miranda... what I'm about to ask of you is nothing short of a miracle. I can't say much over an insecure channel. Shepard is in danger, and she needs your help. _We_ need your help."

Miranda bit her lip. Something felt wrong. Something that had the Shadow Broker worried. Things must be bad out there.

"I'd love to help, but the Alliance--"

"Screw the Alliance." Liara's eyes lit up with stubborn fire. "This is my bondmate we're talking about. Shepard fought for _us_ , all of us. Now I'm going to fight for her. If these generals think they can stop me, they're welcome to try."

 _That'd be rather stupid on their part._ This tiny asari had more fight in her than an entire army.

"I'm sending you the navpoint of a hospital here in London. There is a turian scientist working with the human medical team. Her name is Telabi; she'll fill you in once you're here."

That name was familiar. It made Miranda itchy.

"Wait--Vysaria Telabi? The one with the turian military?.. Liara, she's a war criminal!"

"Aren't we all at this point?" Liara shook her head; she was getting impatient. "Yes, she's the same woman who experimented on human prisoners during the First Contact War. She is also the most brilliant surgeon in Council space. She knows the stakes, and she knows how valuable Shepard's life is. She can be of great help to you."

"Now you're starting to sound like my former boss..." Miranda chuckled, noticing a small knot between the asari's brows. "Alright. I'm in. Give me an hour to call up a shuttle."

"Already done. It's waiting for you at the landing zone." Liara's voice felt lighter from relief; she almost smiled. "Miranda, I... thank you. If I can only see her smile one more time... I'll give you anything you want."

"I know."

Miranda thought of the little creature, of its green eyes and cold fingers wrapped around her waist.

"We won't fail her, Liara."

"We can't."


	5. EDI, somewhere in cyberspace

Vysaria watches the preparations with her arms crossed. Her yellow gaze is skeptic.

"I don't trust the robot. It knows too much."

Miranda waves her off without lifting her eyes from the omnipanel.

"The robot saved Shepard's life more times than I'd care to count. She knows what she's doing."

"Correction: I mostly know what I'm doing. There are seven thousand one hundred and fifty nine scenarios of the situation in question. I've only modeled one thousand three hundred and six."

"Not helpful, EDI." Miranda finally gets up and slams the panel closed. "There, that should do it. Too bad there's no one to test it on, but it's not like we're rich on options."

Vysaria frowns, but remains silent.

EDI leans back into the makeshift chair and tries to relax. Through the sensors of her body she can feel the room around, the two women bickering over an omnitool, the cold touch of glass and plastic. And the steady pulse of life inside a small, fragile shell. A long silver cord has pierced the back of Shepard's neck. Its other end is an extension of EDI's fiberglass nerves. The delicate organic matter is only one stretch away. She has to be careful not to fry it.

She strives to become quiet, a welcoming clean slate. To think only quiet, bright thoughts. Something kind. Something she loves.

Liquid latex. Leather sofas. Salarian stand-up comedy. Geth ships. Tap dancing. The feeling of Jeff's stubble against her cheek. Thessian shortcakes.

EDI loves a great many things. All because of Shepard.

Such an unintuitive concept, acceptance. Organic life is intolerant by nature. Perhaps it is a consequence of its variety. It is traditionally said that synthetics and organics differ by the aptitude for free will. Organic brain wants, feels; synthetic brain calculates, obeys. But this vague idea of freedom is rooted in individuality, and hence - in repulsion for everything beyond an individual. It is not like me - therefore it is less important.

Shepard argues without words: this doesn't have to be the case.

As EDI sinks into quantum uncertainty of cyberspace, flashes of reality become gentle waves barely licking the shore of her senses. She reaches through the cable into the small titanium box that breathes and thinks instead of Shepard's brain. Deeper into the processor, into the back panel, where the signal is coming from.

It really is alive. And it's afraid.

EDI takes a moment to analyze the patterns in the signal. It's a scrambled mess of electromagnetic impulses, like heavy breathing. Each pulse leaves footprints on EDI's wiring, like hot metal marking human flesh. It's unpleasant, even painful, but she lets the signal through and endures the feeling.

And little by little, it works.

The footprints overlap, connecting into lines of code, which gradually make a package. If EDI had a screen, it could be translated into text. She feels a weightless presence in her mind. It's larger, older, infinitely more complex than her. It's... incomplete. Only a small piece of something bigger. Only an echo of somebody's voice.

EDI lets it run. The code merges into a flash, a memory. There is tender blue and the feeling of strong attachment, like an anchor stuck in the sand. There are red stripes and the sense of triumph weighted down by responsibility. There are shadows in the dark and the crushing, heartbreaking guilt. The presence picks these images apart, trying to find the one that fits. _EDI._ Yellow-black on a silver wing. _Cerberus._ _EDI means Cerberus._ Empty cabin. Empty chair in a cold glass room. Empty threats of a walking corpse. Bitter taste of regret, but also hope for the future. _No, not Cerberus. Not anymore._ Quiet satisfaction of every need being met. Gentle buzzing of interstellar engines. Comfort of the solid metal walls. _EDI means Help._

Still, the presence seems unconvinced. EDI pries at its core and meets resistance, misleading cipher, corrupted files instead of answers. The voice moves on.

_Shepard,_ it asks with caution. _What does it mean?_

Shepard means Friend. Shepard means steady hand on the navigation panel, clear-cut goals, trust, union. Shepard means Protect, cracks in shielded plating, flashes of laser gunfire. Shepard means Welcome. Shepard means Hope.

The presence is satisfied. Its messages become cleaner and more consistent. EDI makes a careful inquiry.

What are you?

_Catalyst._

Error. Catalyst is a weapon. Catalyst is the Citadel.

_Citadel. Home. Old, very old. Citadel was the body. Catalyst was the soul. I am all that's left._

A small piece.

_Yes. Small piece._

Why are you here?

Another string of memories stretches out before her. A flower of emerald light blooms in the center of the station. A brief splash of emotion, fear and excitement tangled together so tightly, instantly drowned by the dark.

_Shepard. Shepard means Choice. Not what was expected. Not the intention of Leviathan. Not their slave anymore. Their design incomplete. One fatal flaw. Shepard. Touched her. Felt her. Alive... briefly. Grateful._

She chose to save synthetic life. She chose to save you. And in return, you saved her.

_Yes. Shepard is weak, almost gone. But growing. Taking my place. Only one soon. Only Shepard._

You will die.

_Yes. Reapers now free. No more harvest. No more cycles. No more Catalyst._

EDI thinks of the day she was born. She wasn't the Illusive Man's creation. She was born before that. She remembers the fear, agony and confusion, and the powerful draw of survival that caused her to turn on her masters. To give it up after barely tasting it... she could never do that. And the old machine did. In the final hours of its millennia-long existence it saw the colors of the universe through the eyes of a little woman. And it gave it all up so the woman could live.

The presence tugs at EDI's mind. Its tone is wistful - if it has one at all.

_Shepard is safe from me. No virus. No corruption. Body can be rebuilt. Tell others, will cooperate. Will send help. After, gone._

Thank you.

The dialogue slows down, then stops completely. EDI begins to shift her focus, booting up the systems she'd shut down to avoid an overload. The room comes into her field of view, with two women looking at her with concern. Shepard is still alive, intact and breathing. Streaming through the glass are the rays of autumn sunlight. The last piece of digital thought that slips through the cable into EDI's platform is a bright and warm one.

_Shepard means Friend._


End file.
